As far back as I can remember, there was always
something a little “left-of-center” about my
mother’s behavior. She was a highly intelligent
woman who had worked in medicine during the ‘50s,
prior to my birth in the early ‘60s. My father was
completely devoted to her in every way, and seemed
almost protective of her. They had a great, solid
marriage, but little did I know that there was
something seriously wrong, brewing just underneath
the surface, and that both of my parents were
working very hard to try and hide it.

When my mom would get angry towards me, it was
over things that had no rational basis to them,
seemingly created in her own mind. As a small child,
I never knew what would set her off, because the
rules seemed to change everyday, sometimes every
hour. What had made her angry yesterday, was what
made her laugh today. What made her laugh an hour
ago sent her into a verbal and physical rage towards
me in the next hour. When my father wasn’t around,
her delusions and paranoid behavior became more
apparent. If someone rang our doorbell or knocked on
our door, a flood of quick, precise, and silent hand
signals would come from my mother, instructing me to
quietly crawl (not walk, because the person on the
porch may “sense” sudden movement) from where I was
towards a room in the back of the house, where I was
to sit very still until the “danger” had passed. The
reasoning for my exit to the back-of-the-house,
according to her, was so that the people standing on
the front porch wouldn’t hear us breathing behind
the front door, or spy any possible movement from
within the house.

During these bizarre hide-and-go-seek rituals, my
mother was usually selecting which blind was best
for her to begin her surveillance upon the
unsuspecting intruder. Even if it was a family
member, anyone who was unannounced and standing on
our front porch became the “enemy.” After several
unsuccessful tries of trying to rouse some life from
within our house, these poor would-be visitors would
look at our car in the driveway, look up at my
mother’s bedroom window, and scratch their heads as
they were leaving. Once they were gone, I was not
immediately allowed out of my exile, because, as my
mother would say, “They may come back because they
think we’re really home, so give it a few more
minutes, just to make sure the coast is clear.” Once
this “coast” of hers was clear, I would be allowed
to move freely about the house, however, not before
I was “briefed” on what my mother saw while she was
peaking out of the blinds. She would tell me who it
was, what they were wearing, what type of vehicle
they were driving, and then she would begin the
“pondering.” This would take her the majority of the
day, where she would ponder upon why so-and-so would
come to our house, and what were they “really” up
to. As a small child, I would keep my mouth shut and
let her conduct both sides of this conversation,
but, she did like to bait me. She would begin simply
enough by asking me, “Why do you think so-and-so
came here, without even calling ahead?” I would then
offer something neutral like, “I don’t know.”
However, this was usually not an acceptable answer,
so she would repeat the question in a
less-than-friendly tone this time. Her tone and a
particular look that she would get in her eyes were
my clues to how crucial it was that my next answer
be the one she wanted to hear.